


Diamonds and the exceptionally high cost of telling the truth

by Vitai_Lampada



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: Chris Cairns perjury trial, M/M, Match Fixing, additional people and pairings probably to be added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-05-13 15:03:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14751146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vitai_Lampada/pseuds/Vitai_Lampada
Summary: Two words finished Brendon McCullum's career - "Not guilty".





	1. Things you won't believe a man can steal - Part 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lordsanga](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordsanga/gifts).



> Despite the title, this is a work of fiction. It is written for the purposes of entertainment and in no way reflects actual events or the author's belief in the veracity of the events depicted. This story plays fast and loose with names, dates, occurrences, and commas. It should not be considered to be factual in any way.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part One: Your soul

_November 2015_

You are out in the middle when the tiny, glittering thing inside you finally shatters. You slog, you get out, and as you walk off the field you know that this is it, you’re done.

You take your pads off, neck your painkillers, and sneak off for a fag. As you exhale the second puff you wonder why something you didn’t even realise was still there matters so much. You’ve had a broken back for years. There’s a rotten bone in your knee. One match you taped your bat into your hand to see out the innings, and when they x-rayed your forearm afterward the doctors saw three fractures in various stages of healing. You’ve played through intense physical pain for much of your career – why is this any different?

But somehow, it is. You are simultaneously surprised the little jewel kept going for so long and angry that it is gone when you didn’t even get to treasure it.

Hess finds you, asks if you are okay, and you tell him flatly that you are finished.

“Do you have another few battles left in you?”

And fuck him for asking it like that, because he knows you’ve never backed down from a fight in your life; so you’re not about to start now, not even if that’s what destroyed you in the first place.


	2. Things you won't believe a man can steal - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two: Your past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the title, this is a work of fiction. It is written for the purposes of entertainment and in no way reflects actual events or the author's belief in the veracity of the events depicted. This story plays fast and loose with names, dates, occurrences, and commas. It should not be considered to be factual in any way.

_November 2015_

You aren’t that surprised to find Stephen Fleming ‘just happens’ to be in Adelaide. Some story about picks for the IPL which you don’t believe. Lis would have called him after you’d called her – telling her your decision and saying she didn’t need to come over. Not after the last trip, not with three kids to manage – and fuck’s sake, don’t tell the old man, or Mum, or Nathan. You’ll tell them later.

But, of course, there’s Flem in the hotel when the team arrives. You’d be pissed off about it, like everyone thinks you can’t handle yourself, except Flem is practically the only person who might be able to understand what is eating you. The verdict feels like it has gone through and ripped the joy out of every game of cricket you ever played. It’s all become about Chris now, all become about you and him.

Stephen invites you to his room for a meal and a drink and a chat, and you’re early for once because you know how much you need to see him, even if you wouldn’t ever admit it. You stand outside the door and wonder if you should wait until the appointed time to try and make sure he doesn’t suspect exactly how fucked up you are but you knock instead. Stephen doesn’t even look surprised as he lets you in.

Without saying anything he offers you a beer and the room service menu. You take the drink, ignore the menu, and neck the bottle before you even say hello.

He takes a little longer to have about half of his beer, so you take a seat on the couch and start talking.

You tell Flem you are broken, your spirit crushed, and he just looks at you with those huge, soft eyes. You’ve been in this room before and said all these same things only this time it is different. You both know it’s different.

“If you think you have to retire Brendon, then it’s the right choice. No one could ask you to give more than you have.”

When he sits next to you, Stephen presses his hand to your back in the magic way he does that somehow takes the pressure off your three herniated discs. You wonder if part of the reason you still love him is because he makes the pain more bearable whenever he’s around.

But still, it’s not enough.

“Why am I the only one who’s been fucked up by this?” you yell and turn, wrench your back away from Stephen’s hands, though the howl you let out has almost nothing to do with the sudden flash of pain.

In the aftermath of that howl, a ringing silence. You recognise the sound echoing somewhere deep in your past. It’s the howl of a child betrayed, a little-boy noise from when the world was unfair and there was nothing you could do about it.

“He took it from me, Stephen. He took cricket away from me.”

You want Stephen to somehow fix it. To give you back the game and repair the part of you that had sparkled ever since you looked out the window of the room you shared with your brother and saw the cloudless sky on a summer Saturday.

Instead Stephen looks at you and his eyes are moist and he doesn’t say anything because there’s nothing he can say. His huge hands are sitting useless on his lap and they just remind you that there is no fixing this.

“I didn’t even have to go, I didn’t have to face him. I could have done it by video, I could have just not testified at all!

“That fucker wants to ask me ‘why?’ - well I’m asking myself the same question.”

And Stephen just keeps looking at you, keeps saying nothing. And you’re so sick of everyone else being okay, of everyone acting like it doesn’t matter, sick of being the only one who has ended up as collateral damage in Chris Cairns’s quest to bury the fucking truth.

“You loved him, didn’t you?” you want to make your accusation cold and hard, but your voice refuses to co-operate, the child inside you is still determined to be heard.

“That’s why you got ‘foggy’, isn’t it? You didn’t face him because you loved him!”

“No Brendon,” Stephen replies, and it gives you no pleasure to hear the sadness with which he says your name, “That’s not why I didn’t go. It’s why you did.”

And that undoes you, finally and completely. You drop your head into your hands, let Stephen move close again to press his hands against your back. A gentle kiss to the nape of your neck makes you squeeze your eyes tight while you try to swallow the lump in your throat because your head is filled with agony that Chris can take everything from you and you can’t even make yourself hate him.


	3. Things you won't believe a man can steal - Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Three: The truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the title, this is a work of fiction. It is written for the purposes of entertainment and in no way reflects actual events or the author's belief in the veracity of the events depicted. This story plays fast and loose with names, dates, occurrences, and commas. It should not be considered to be factual in any way.

_November 2015_

I let Brendon go without telling him that I would never have testified in court – not by video, not in person. Yes, the police had been in touch, and my name had come up in the trial. Questions about that night I had cornered Lou in a bar and given him the dressing-down I’d saved up for Chris, which I still felt guilty about. Lou had enough haunting him without me making him feel like shit, even if he deserved it.

Except Christopher and I were mutually avoiding each other by then, because some things you can only survive if you never bring them up. It wasn’t the match fixing that kept me away, it was everything else.

But Brendon, with his ability to pick the most fearsome windmills to tilt at, and his willingness to burn bridges if a person didn’t live up to standards he never met himself…. Brendon wouldn’t have understood. Not then, and probably not ever. He was still telling himself it was about Truth. He hadn’t realised that a trial, a process like the one which crushed him, is never about truth. Truth doesn’t get anywhere near it.

I’d been 21 in 1994, one afternoon in a vineyard in South Africa. And it sounds ridiculous, but it really was a different time. I look back now and can’t believe I was ever that young.

The country I was touring was still nominally under apartheid. Home computers existed, but I didn’t own one. We had heard of the internet, but Google was a decade away. Forget T20, Martin Crowe hadn’t even thought of Cricket Max, and New Zealand had yet to take the field wearing black.

That was the world, on my first SA tour, on a sunny afternoon when I was young. Most of the guys were supposed to join us but didn’t show up – so just a handful of players sat drinking wine, enjoying the day off. And someone passed around a joint. And I took two puffs.

It wasn’t the smoking which caused the trouble. It wasn’t even bloody Danny Morrison, who narked on everyone the next day. It was the fact I couldn’t let Dion Nash shoulder the blame alone. It was the fact I was determined to tell the truth.

And then the vortex started.

I called my mother in tears, convinced I’d fucked up everything she had sacrificed so much to give me. I hired a lawyer – for an hourly sum I didn’t then quite believe people actually got paid – to hopefully keep me from losing my career over two puffs of weed and my own foolish honesty. I cried myself to sleep for weeks.

At 21 years old I learned the hard way that the truth will not save you. I didn’t need to walk into Southwark Crown Court to learn that lesson again 21 years later.

Although I could not possibly have known it at the time, I had been lucky. The shit-storm I went through could be survived by holing up at a friend’s bach with no talkback radio. The paper came in the morning and the TV news was half an hour at six o’clock. Twitter and Facebook weren’t there to give everyone a soapbox to yell from and the 24-hour news cycle had yet to put those tweets all over everything else. Things could blow over, be forgotten.

So I got through my own little experience of hell with my future slightly battered, but intact.

During the nightmare, if I had been offered the choice – compromise my integrity to avoid going through that – I’d have made the compromise in a heartbeat. I’ve worked hard to stay honest ever since, because I paid such a damned high price for my honesty back then. Not in dollars – twelve grand was the least of it.

I didn’t testify against Chris because everything I knew about match-fixing was hearsay, and everything I knew about Christopher was coloured by memories of hero-worship and his particular skill at making beautiful, talented young men feel like they were special.

I’m sure Brendon would have seen my decision not to testify as cowardly, and probably dishonest. And maybe he would be right. But as he had just told me, in that hollow voice and those ringing sobs, neither the truth nor your pride can keep you going if you stop believing in them. And if you risk those, you risk losing everything.

***

That day at the vineyard I hadn’t known why the rest of the team was delayed. There should have been more of us there, not just five guys. In the chaos that followed, I didn’t dare ask – too scared to lift that rock and find more trouble squirming underneath.

Months later, I finally thought I might be able to find out without having to call up my lawyer again. Simon Doull told me the story: the rest of the team had been on a tour at Kimberly, and Adam Parore had stolen a diamond. Stuck it in his sock or his pocket. The whole group had been detained while their hosts, politely but firmly, made it clear they would not be leaving until the diamond came back.  
No one mentioned Adam’s name, though they all knew it was him, and eventually the diamond was ‘found’. Adam said nothing, no one breathed a word, and they all went back to the hotel.

I wasn’t surprised at Maverick half-inching something on a tour, though I had been stunned when Doully told me he had tried to take a diamond. How the fuck did he think he could get away with it?

“He’s just Mav, isn’t he?” replied Simon, “That’s just how he thinks.”

I shook my head.

“And he did get away with it,” Doully concluded.

“What do you mean? You said the diamond was returned.”

“He didn’t get away with the diamond, he got away with nicking the fucking thing in the first place. Seriously, look at how reamed you just got for smoking some dope. Don’t you think what Mav did was worse?”

I didn’t respond. I’d learned by then never to comment on any allegations without a lawyer present.

“Well, I do,” he continued lightly.

“But Adam knows something you don’t. You never admit you did something wrong – first you keep your mouth shut, and then if you’ve got no option, you lie. That’s how you get away with anything. That’s how you get away with stealing a diamond.”


	4. Things you won't believe a man can steal - Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Four: Your future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the title, this is a work of fiction. It is written for the purposes of entertainment and in no way reflects actual events or the author's belief in the veracity of the events depicted. This story plays fast and loose with names, dates, occurrences, and commas. It should not be considered to be factual in any way.

_December 2015_

As the setting sun darkened the clouds under the jumbo jet, dropping fast into the night somewhere high above the equator, Chris tried not to think about the past. About other equatorial evenings, the sun plunging beneath the horizon as though it were eager to give way to the night-time – though the heat of the day never let go. Forget the lingering southern twilights (“ _Forget them_ ,” he muttered) the dusk could come and go so fast he’d barely find time to lick salt off a cocktail glass or the skin of someone beautiful.

Chris rubbed his eyes, forcing himself forward into the here and now, the plane hundreds of feet above the clouds, the tiny cans of soft drink and plastic cutlery.

He knew going into this he would lose friends. Well, more friends; life had seen him lose plenty along the way already. Still, he had a beautiful wife, two sons, two daughters, and enough friends – old and new – to not worry too much about the ones who were off his Christmas card list.

And his freedom. He was going home, not going to prison. That was enough to be getting on with. Enough to keep from getting despondent over the past.

The future though, the future concerned him. He’d spent so much of the past few years litigating that he felt like he’d forgotten how to live a life away from court. Hell, the end of the trial felt a bit like his retirement from international cricket – a week or so of joyful relief, then the dawning fear. Then the _now what?_

Chris had learned the adversarial system was like cricket in other ways, or at least cricket the way he’d played it. You used the media right, front-footed the opposition, and made sure your partner complemented you.

He and Orlando Pownall had been as good as a proper left-hand right-hand combination. Chris had steamed in hard, Pownall had accumulated, plugged away at the weak spots in his accusers’ stories. Pownall hadn’t asked for the full rundown, which bits Chris had done and which bits he hadn’t – though plenty of the QC’s questions told Chris he knew something more risqué than wine and women were involved. He only wanted to know what could cost them the case. And he’d come out victorious.

Chris had won his freedom, and was now trying very hard not to think of what he had lost.

He sipped his ginger ale, trying to keep his mind in the plane. He listened to the drone of the engines, peered out the windows to see the red and green lights on the wings now glowing against the dark. He looked across the cabin, appreciatively eyeing the young flight attendant working in the other aisle, handing a passenger an extra blanket with a flirtatious little smirk. The boy had sun-streaks in his curly hair that made him look like he was at the beach every minute he wasn’t in the air. He turned and walked quickly through the cabin, with an economy of movement that must be second nature from working in tight spaces. Chris grinned a little at that thought, though his face fell a second later. What was that boy – half his age?

Chris wasn’t sure how he was going to keep himself occupied. Dion Nash, wonderful mate that he was, offered to let him in on Triumph&Disaster, but Chris had turned him down. After the debacle of the fudge, Chris was a touch burned out on consumer goods. He had the holdings with the guys in Dubai, the diamonds and those properties, but their lawyers has been in touch. It would be foolish, they told him, to involve himself again when the trial was still fresh. Chris agreed, but knew that state of ‘still fresh’ would probably last for years, he’d never see back most of what he had invested. As businessmen, they were ruthless, though Chris could respect that. Ruthlessness was part of his make-up too.

But still, here he was: old, pretty much broke, with a reputation that was vindicated in a court of law but not in the court of people’s opinion. He’d done charity work in memory of his sister, and on behalf of his daughter – he doubted he’d ever be able to do that again.

‘Concentrate on what’s important,’ he told himself firmly. Forget charity work, forget Dubai, forget Lou and Shane and Daniel and Stephen and Brendon. Forget the past. Focus on the future, even if he wasn’t sure what that future held.

He was going home, he had the chance to make a whole new future. The sun would rise tomorrow, and he could do anything he wanted.


	5. No one breaks your heart quite like your first love - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part One: The parts the porn doesn't show

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the title, this is a work of fiction. It is written for the purposes of entertainment and in no way reflects actual events or the author's belief in the veracity of the events depicted. This story plays fast and loose with names, dates, occurrences, and commas. It should not be considered to be factual in any way.

_February 2002_

You notice him looking at you but you tell yourself it can’t mean what those looks usually mean. After all, he is Chris Cairns and you are, when it comes down to it, a white-trash kid from South D.

You know guys look at you, and you even like it - especially when it ends up with someone sucking your cock. Heterosexual you may be, you’re not fussy about where your blowjobs come from.

But when you see Chris is looking at you in that way you were sure you recognised, you don’t believe it. It must be something different, particularly since you’ve been so shit in your first couple of games. You hope he might be willing to mentor you a bit, because again, this is Chris Cairns, this guy is a legend and he hits the ball with all the power you want to have. Only much better timing.  
So when you catch those looks, you can’t help posing a little, though you doubt he cares. Never hurts to show yourself off.

You feel pretty stoked when Chris does take you under his wing, keeping up those appraising looks but then following them with actual advice. He is perceptive and knowledgeable, though in a way that reminds you more of a headmaster than a coach. Things work one way - his way. Never mind that, you pinch yourself that he’s even paying attention to you. That attention does seem slightly different from all the other coaches and captains you’ve had, and it’s a difference that means you can’t help but flirt a bit.

(Your brother would say that’s because you’re a skank, but you’re here and he’s not, so screw him.)

After three days of feeling Cairnsy’s eyes on you almost every minute, and throwing just enough looks back to let him know you know he’s looking, he keeps you longer in the nets than you really need. Keeps you there until it’s just you and him.

Once you are alone, Chris drops all pretense. He needs no excuse to move close to you, to touch your arm. He simply stands over you, making your breath hitch and your heart beat faster.

When he kisses you, it’s not like you’ve ever been kissed before. Not like the sloppy kisses from girls just learning the art, not like the timid kisses from boys too scared to admit what they want. Chris bends down and takes the kiss from you, completely confident that he won’t be rebuffed. As you slide your hands up his biceps you think that this might be what it could feel like to kiss yourself. And then you think that if it isn’t, you want it to be.

Chris kisses you until you are panting, breaking off while you’re holding tight onto his shoulders as he grips your hair and pulls your body hard against him. You’ve had blowjobs from rugby players, but you’ve never experienced anyone using their physicality with quite the skill that Chris does.

“Come to my room tonight.”

You recognise this is an order, not an invitation. That's almost enough to get you to you turn him down, but the erection making itself uncomfortably felt against the inside of your box is telling you that you’re definitely going to be there.

When you do knock on his door, you don't want to look nervous. You don't want to seem like a kid, or worse, a virgin. You've done stuff with guys. But the butterflies in your stomach refuse to settle and when Chris opens the door you're sure that he can see straight through you - not that you let that affect your bravado. You're the one to initiate the kiss this time, and you can feel Chris smiling against your mouth as he kisses you back. You push against him, refusing to let him take the lead, and he indulges you - up to a point.

That point is where you are both shirtless on his bed and you aren't sure if you should go for his belt or not. Chris senses your hesitation and he rolls you onto your back, grins down at you and says, “I want to fuck you.”

And that takes all the wind out of your sails because you haven't ever actually done that before, and the porn you've seen hasn't really featured the processes and preparations and what, exactly, is supposed to feel good about having Cairnsy’s cock up your arsehole.

Chris sees you hesitate.

“Never done that before?”

“No, seems a bit…”

He kisses the objection from your lips with a grin, “Trust me, I'll make it feel good.”

He's surprisingly gentle, taking you through all the parts the porn doesn't show. First he’s sucking your cock as he presses a finger inside you, letting you get comfortable with each step before taking the next one. His fingers inside you hurt a bit, make you twist uncomfortably on the bed and consider asking him to stop. But then he curls his fingers and hits a spot in you and you clutch the sheets and whimper. You knew about the hypothetical existence of this spot, but you weren't sure it wasn't made up, another part of gay porn. The discomfort doesn't pass, exactly, but you decide you can take it, pain with an overlay of unexpected pleasure.

When Chris slides a condom on, you wonder if he thinks you're dirty, but you're breathing too hard to speak properly. Then when he leans over you, stretching your legs back over your shoulders you find yourself swallowing again and again, unable to say anything at all.

As he penetrates you, you tense, grit your teeth against the pain. Chris strokes your chest, telling you to relax, talking you through it until he's fucking you in earnest and this strange new pleasure is beginning to overwhelm you.

You grab your cock to bring yourself off, jerking quickly with one hand while you tug Chris’s head down and kiss him again and he’s fucking you deep and you don’t think you can hold out much longer and the sensations are so new and so intense and all of a sudden you’re coming so hard your back clicks all the way up your spine.

Afterwards - after Chris has come and you’re starting to get your breath back, but before you can think properly - you ask him if you can stay the night. As soon as you say it you wish you could take the words back, they sound so needy and unconfident, everything you’re sure Chris doesn’t want and you don’t want to be.

“Of course Brendon, I’m not just going to kick you out into the corridor. But be warned, I snore.”

“I can handle it.”

Chris gives you a grin that you can’t quite place while you snuggle into him, trying not to let him realise that snuggling is what you’re doing.

“I know you can.”

His arm on your chest is heavy, but as the air conditioning chills your damp skin, you’re grateful for the warmth. The clock shows 03:17 when you awaken, struggling to shift out from under the weight of Chris’s huge hand.


	6. No one breaks your heart quite like your first love - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two: There's a word for that, you know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the title, this is a work of fiction. It is written for the purposes of entertainment and in no way reflects actual events or the author's belief in the veracity of the events depicted. This story plays fast and loose with names, dates, occurrences, and commas. It should not be considered to be factual in any way.

_February 2002_

Daniel could see exactly what was happening, and he hated every single part of it. He hated that Cairnsy was throwing those long, penetrating looks at Brendon. He hated that Chris had once thrown those same looks at him.

And most of all, Daniel hated that he cared. He wanted to not give a shit. He had moved on, of course he had moved on - he'd never expected that he and Chris would last for any real length of time, or even that they would be in any way a proper couple. But it still rankled, the way he had been cast aside for someone newer and shinier - all before his twenty-first birthday. And it definitely irked him that he had to watch Cairns doing it all over again.

Daniel would have been content to just quietly seeth and hate the entire situation, except he obviously hadn't done it quietly enough, because Stephen called him in for a chat.

"Danny, I know it must be difficult to deal with, but please don't take it out on Brendon."

Daniel hadn't been aware he was taking it out on Brendon. He doubted the kid had complained either. Not for the first time, Daniel wondered if Flem was psychic.

"That's just how Christopher is, try not to think of it as a personal slight."

During these kinds of conversations, he’d noticed Stephen liked to adopt a particular head tilt. Something about it made Daniel sure that his captain had learned it from watching caring dads on American sitcoms, and it irritated the shit out of him. Seeing Stephen assume that pose just made Daniel want to get right under his skin.

"Wait, you're saying Chris screws his new teammates, regularly, and that's just how he is? Brendon's ten years younger than Cairnsy!"

"We're all adults here."

"I was a teenager. I was eighteen."

That got through Stephen's Very Special Episode demeanor. He cut the annoying head-tilt and fixed Daniel with a hard stare.

"What exactly are you implying?"

Daniel stared back, refusing to let himself be intimidated. He didn't need to tell Stephen what he was implying - and not because Flem might be psychic. It was as close to an accusation as Daniel could make.

After a long moment he backed away from actually making it. He was pretty sure it wouldn't have been entirely true anyway.

"Nothing. I'm just making the point."

Flem didn't look convinced. "Danny... That is not somewhere any of us wants to go. I understand - you're angry, you're jealous-"

"I'm not fucking jealous."

God he hated the way Stephen looked at him.

"-...Okay. Not jealous.

"But still. Be very sure about what you're raking up. Because it's not just Cairnsy, is it? How long have you and Chris Harris been close for now? He's ten years older than you as well."

Of course Flem was going to bring Harry into the conversation. Daniel gritted his teeth and took a breath. He'd be damned if he was going to lose his cool with Stephen. Particularly over this.

"What do you mean by that, Flem?"

"I only mean that we all have something to lose here. You survived. I survived. Brendon will too. 

"Just carry on with your job and let me keep an eye on it."

He wasn't sure that Stephen "keeping an eye on it" would mean much if shit seriously went south. However, he wanted this conversation to be over badly enough that he was willing to pretend he agreed.

Daniel escaped the room a few minutes later without saying too much that could be considered an outright lie, and pledged to keep his cards closer to his chest - at least until the end of the summer.

Daniel thought half-lies were probably the best result. He didn't even really think Chris was a bad person - they actually got on pretty well, so long as certain topics were avoided. Yeah, he could be a complete creep, but that didn't exactly make him unique in this game. And although their fling had started before Daniel had been old enough to drink, he had been old enough to consent - and had consented very eagerly.

But he couldn't quite shake the queasy feeling in his stomach as he got back to his room. He would undoubtedly have to watch Brendon mistake attention for love, and see the kid pour his love awkwardly and obviously back all over Cairnsy. And of course, Cairnsy would then use that as further proof he was the hottest thing on earth, because the man was just like that.

Then once Brendon had gotten wise - or perhaps had just gotten a bit more subtle; because Jesus, that kid was as blatant as a brick through a window - Chris would take up with someone new. Then Daniel would be stuck feeling sorry for Brendon as he pretended not to care.

As he collapsed face down onto his bed, Daniel told himself to forget about it, that he was probably just projecting. Then he told himself there was no way he was projecting because he had never been like that. There was no way he had ever been in love with Chris.


	7. No one breaks your heart quite like your first love - Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Three: You can tell a man from what he has to say
> 
> Alternate chapter title: The early 90s Canterbury cricket porn that no one actually asked for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the title, this is a work of fiction. It is written for the purposes of entertainment and in no way reflects actual events or the author's belief in the veracity of the events depicted. This story plays fast and loose with names, dates, occurrences, and commas. It should not be considered to be factual in any way.

_Christchurch, 1992_

The first time Chris saw Stephen, he knew he wanted him. The gawky-looking teenager who had gone to Cashmere High, not somewhere fancy like Christs College or St Bede's, and whose huge dark eyes reminded Chris of nothing more than a startled deer if you said his name too loud. Then you put a cricket bat in his hand and he turned into an entirely different person. To Chris, Stephen was every bit as magical as if he’d been plucked from a fairy tale. He needed to touch that before the magic disappeared.

Getting Stephen alone the first time hadn’t been as difficult as Chris thought it might be. Chris had invited Stephen to his place, Stephen had accepted. The older man was slightly surprised, he hadn't been able to conjure up a convincing group invite, and thought his new teammate might be intimidated. Stephen, Chris learned, was not easily intimidated.

“Well, I live with my mum,” he said, when Chris brought it up. The TV was on and Stephen was sitting on the couch with his second beer halfway drunk, “My aunts come over most weekends.”

Here Stephen did smile bashfully.

“Sometimes I get a bit sick of being the only male in a house full of women.”

“And yet you went off to teacher's college.”

They were sitting side by side on the slightly tatty sofa, Chris had to lean into the corner to keep a proper eye on Stephen. He had a La-Z-Boy, but he didn't like to sit in it when he only had one guest - it felt too much like a throne.

“I was obviously unduly influenced.”

“Or you're just playing to your vocabulary.”

Stephen laughed at that, which gave Chris a good chance to look him over. He definitely looked more rangy once you got him off the cricket field, hands and feet hanging oversized from his limbs. Chris couldn't ever remember having been like that, he’d filled out early enough that he occasionally worried an injury break would put fat all around his middle.

Stephen should have been clumsy, as well as rangy, but he always moved with a surprising grace, and he had settled himself into Chris's living room like he belonged there.

Chris thought about making a move then, but decided he didn't need to rush it - and didn't want to risk scaring Stephen off. There was no real harm in waiting.

 

That was how it started between them. Stephen coming over when he was invited, simply taking Chris at his word. It showed a refreshing lack of subterfuge which Chris would later miss and later still take as proof that Stephen had always been a far better liar than anyone would ever appreciate.

They’d chat while watching TV, or while having a few drinks in the garden. Chris was extremely flattered when he was the recipient of Stephen’s only illegally bought six pack, four days after his nineteenth birthday.

“I had a lie about forgetting my licence all ready, but the lady in the bottle store didn’t even ask me for ID.”

“Well you hadn’t shaved for what, three hours?”

This was a running joke between them, after Stephen confessed to Chris that his PE teacher had been the one who taught him to shave. The perils of having thick dark hair when you were a 13-year-old with no dad.

Stephen was always particularly sensitive about that part of his life. He was ashamed of being a bastard, of having a father he’d only met once. Chris would sometimes see a strange look on Stephen’s face when he was complaining about his own father – Lance giving Chris grief or going on about how things had been better in the old days.

‘At least you’ve got a dad,’ that look seemed to say, ‘And he’s famous.’

It never stopped Chris complaining though, and Stephen never said anything beyond what anyone might say when a friend was griping about his parents.

Chris did notice that Stephen rarely complained about his mum, preferring to indulge her. Stephen gave her Chris’s home number so that she could get hold of him if he was over there; occasionally called her from Chris's kitchen just to let her know where he was and what he was doing.

But Chris never joked about that, or about Stephen’s father. He never laughed when Stephen relayed stories about the regular small humiliations he’d suffered at school for having a single mum.

He thought that was probably what made Stephen so shy and intense with girls, where Chris was reckless - “Use 'em and lose ‘em, Steve!” Stephen didn’t want to make a mistake and either wind up at the altar, or with another kid who didn’t know his dad.

And Chris thought it might also be the reason he didn’t move his knee when Chris touched his leg against it, didn’t pull his arm away when Chris trailed his fingers from elbow to wrist, getting Stephen’s attention in a far more physical way than was strictly necessary.

 

These were patient moments for Chris, waiting for the slightest wrong reaction. It didn’t feel like he was seducing his teammate – if only because he never had to work this hard to seduce anyone.

He occasionally felt like he might as well use his normal technique on Stephen – the guy was 19, he had to be horny, didn’t he? Chris was barely three years older, and definitely was.

But Chris didn’t want to risk it, even if he couldn’t quite name what he was risking. It was something to do with the way Stephen looked at him when he mentioned Lance, with the shy two a.m. confessions of a fatherless son.

He didn’t think he could have let it burn as slow as it did, sure each time his friend came over he would throw it all away and just jump Stephen’s bones. But he let his desire smoulder, waiting until he was certain he could see it inside both of them.

 

They’d gone out with some of the guys, but when the night drew to a close it was just the two of them – the way those nights always seemed to end up lately – and they were walking back to Chris’s place.

“Save you waking your mum when you stumble in.”

“If I’m stumbling, why are we walking?”

“Because you’re too broke to pay for a taxi.”

Anyone else would have fired back – called Chris cheap, or asked if he would have made that blonde chick walk if she hadn’t turned him down flat – but Stephen didn’t. Instead he fixed Chris with a long, serious look.

“You don’t have to say it like that.”

“Come on Steve, you know I’m just kidding,” he walked on, though he could still feel Stephen’s gaze.

“But you don’t have to say it. You don’t have to keep proving that you’re Chris Cairns, and I’m no one special.”

Chris caught Stephen by the elbow, “It’s a nice night. I just want to walk, okay.”

“Okay.”

Chris kept his hand on Stephen’s arm a moment too long, then let go so they could keep walking. It was indeed a nice night, clear and bitingly cold. Chris wished he’d worn more than a t-shirt under his sport jacket.

Once the silence had fallen over the pair of them, Chris found he couldn't break it. Stephen knew the way as well as he did by then, so there was no need to offer directions. Instead Chris kept sneaking looks at the other man, noticing how much of the boy he was shedding.

Eventually Chris couldn’t stand it. He grabbed Stephen’s elbow again, looking up and down the deserted suburban street.

“Stephen,” he said, “Who the fuck told you that you were no one special?”

Chris appreciated the stunned expression on Stephen’s face the moment after he kissed him. There was a beat, where he registered that he had been kissed, then another, where Chris thought he might have made a mistake.

Then Stephen kissed him hard, moving with that unexpected grace, and even more unexpected passion. It was teasingly brief, but Chris didn’t mind – he wasn’t interested in being some curtain-twitching insomniac’s late-night entertainment.

“Back to mine?”

And with that they were running, leather shoes slapping the pavement loud enough to wake the dead, Chris pulling ahead as Stephen’s duffle coat slowed him down. Chris stayed in front – but at least he made sure Stephen wasn’t far behind.

They slammed into the hallway and dropped their coats before Chris took up where they left off, pressing Stephen against the wall, kissing him deep and hard. He tried to yank the other man’s shirt out of his pants, popping one of the buttons off as he did it.

“Careful,” Stephen muttered against Chris’s lips.

“I don’t want to be careful Steve, I want you.”

Stephen pressed him back, but only enough to see the laughter and desire in his eyes, “But I like this shirt.”

Chris took him to the bedroom then, methodically stripping off Stephen’s clothes at a much less frenzied pace, though part of him wanted to say fuck it, he could buy a new shirt, and literally tear it from Stephen’s body.

Stephen was probably good for him, Chris thought as he kissed the newly exposed skin. Good for teaching him restraint.

Neither of them had all that much experience, Chris knew. While Chris had notched up a good few conquests, it all felt very one-note, sex without actually enjoying it for more than a few minutes. Stephen had told Chris about a ‘friend’ he’d had at school, laughed that they had learned to fuck by reading _Brideshead Revisited._ But they had fucked, which Chris was relieved about.

As soon as Chris had patiently undressed him, Stephen moved to dive under the sheets, but Chris held him there. He wanted to appreciate the long limbs, the surprisingly lightly haired chest and thighs, the thick cock hard and curving upward towards his belly. Chris noted it was close in size to his own.

Before he could even think he was on his knees and sucking it, enjoying the noises Stephen made. He grinned internally as he felt Stephen reach towards the dressing table while struggling to keep his balance with one hand threading into Chris’s curls.

He wanted this to be good, wanted to be good at it, though he wasn’t prepared for how fast Stephen would lose control - the younger man let out a groan and started thrusting hard, deeper almost than Chris could cope with, and grunted out a warning that was too late to give Chris any time to pull back.

“Sorry,” Stephen panted, while Chris groped by the bed for a tissue. He hated the taste enough that he wasn’t going to swallow.

Stephen didn’t even seem to notice that. Chris grinned when he turned back to see the other man, noting he was both still panting, and still hard.

Chris dragged him to bed then, determined to make Stephen lose every inch of grace he possessed. Covers kicked to the floor, Chris pulling Stephen against him, fingering him, feeling him from the inside.

When they were both spent, Chris watched Stephen fall asleep, oblivious to the sweat-damp sheets in the cold air. His hair was plastered wet to his forehead, and as Chris pulled the duvet over them both he was struck again at just how beautiful he was.

In the morning Stephen looked so shaken and bleary that Chris had to laugh. He had the covers pulled up to his chin, as though they could retroactively preserve his modesty.

“It’s okay Steve, I’ve seen it all.”

“Did we really…”

“Fuck? Yeah, we fucked. And let me tell you, it was good.”

Chris leaned over and kissed him then, feeling the other man relax. Stephen broke the kiss, but held Chris close.

“So we could do it again? Now?”

Chris quirked a smile, “How about you fuck me?”

Stephen’s open-mouthed nodding was all the encouragement Chris needed. He pushed Stephen back and moved over him, before tugging the blankets over them both.

Riding Stephen’s cock sent shockwaves through Chris, and he could feel the tension creeping up his spine as he rocked his hips hard. Stephen was breathing fast, his eyes wide, throat moving in the way that Chris recognized from a few hours previous, as though he was trying to swallow down his orgasm, desperate to prolong the sensation.

Chris picked up Stephen’s hand and wrapped it around his cock, thrusting forward, feeling the calluses on Stephen’s fingers rub over the head. Then Chris was coming, almost before he realised it was happening, taking Stephen’s cock as deep as he could. Stephen bucked his hips up hard - slimmer than Chris, he still almost threw him off as he came.

They lay together afterwards, slick and sweaty all over again, both too sore to contemplate another round. Chris might have followed Stephen into the shower, but there was no way they could both have fitted under the spray. He chuckled, that was definitely a limitation of sleeping with someone else over six feet tall.

 

Stephen was awkward around Chris for a little while, obviously starting to second-guess his own reactions. Chris tried to make sure there were no more double entendres than usual, and gritted his teeth at having to be patient yet again.

A fortnight later they were alone at Chris’s place, and Chris waited one drink before dragging Stephen’s lips to his then, shortly afterwards, dragging him to the bedroom. That was enough to get Stephen to relax, to accept this as another aspect to an already good friendship. Stephen spent the night more often, and once even sneaked Chris into his bedroom, but not much else changed, at least not at first.

 

Late winter, and Stephen was trying to cram training around his classroom placements. He had got into the habit of using the nets at the intermediate school where he was a student teacher after the kids had gone home. Chris had declined to join him when he’d asked, privately thinking the situation was more humiliating than resourceful.

In Chris’s absence, Stephen was often joined by Nathan Astle, the pair taking turns giving each other throwdowns; or Nathan would practice his spin while Stephen learned to frustrate him in the nets for the rest of their careers.

One evening when he would have been stuck training alone, Stephen invited Chris again. Chris didn’t particularly want to go, but agreed to throwdowns in the rapidly cooling dusk. He figured he could cope with half an hour before he took Stephen to bed. Barely five minutes in, however, the heavens opened and they both ended up soaked – as did all of Stephen’s work clothes, left in the top of his open kit bag.

Chris didn’t think he had ever seen anyone look more tired, more defeated, than Stephen did right then. Nor anyone look more grateful at anything as basic as a clothes dryer, a crock-pot casserole, and a hot bath. Chris gave away any thoughts of sex, and handed Stephen a clean pair of shorts to sleep in. After turning off the lights he climbed into bed, spooning close to the other man.

Stephen turned in his arms, “I love you.”

He never spoke without thinking, Chris knew. This was no slip of the tongue, not a thought he would have kept inside if he wasn’t so exhausted. He meant it.

Chris smiled, appreciating how Stephen gave that love so frankly, not qualifying it or justifying, not expecting the reply that Chris wasn’t going to give. Instead Chris kissed him gently, and watched him fall asleep.

As he slipped into slumber himself, Chris wondered why those three words felt so much like victory.


End file.
